Listen
by Starlit Skyline
Summary: It isn't fair that they should suffer like this, whoever they might have been in life – because, after everything, they are still the People of Xerxes. They just want their voices to be heard.


AN: The main character(s) in this fic are the People of Xerxes after they were absorbed into Hoenheim's Philosopher's Stone. In the story, there is no particular character hogging the spotlight, since they act more as a community and always refer to themselves as "they" as a whole. Um, I'm not sure if I explained that well. Anyway, major angst, you have been warned!

ooo

Listen

It was unexpected, the terror, the world bathed crimson as black arms – tendrils – sprang up from the ground and robbed them of their lives. The misery that came after was just as abrupt.

One day, the sun had been shining down on the vast kingdom of Xerxes – the next, all they knew ceased to be. They had found themselves in a tempest, where lines blurred and faces faded into one. Screams, torn from the throats of both the old and the young, echoed in the void.

At first, no one answered, no one heard – as if denying them what meager existence they had left. Then this oblivion, this _prison_ received a new occupant – they were given a cell-mate, one that had all the privileges of being alive and _more_ on _their_ expense.

Van Hoenheim, Slave Number Twenty-Three, these were the names they knew him by – and they loathed both equally. But eventually, they have no strength to scream anymore, no will to curse those who had enslaved them and were putting them through such torment. No freedom. No voice. No one to hear their pleas.

Hoenheim ignored them, for the first couple of days – days, even though time was of no consequence, they would never be able to escape – that made them angry. How dare Hoenheim ignore them?! Now that he had everything and they had nothing, he adds insult no injury (to their _deaths_) by _ignoring_ them – blatantly denying that they exist, that they _live _inside him and that every breath he takes is theirs too.

It's a miserable unity, but one day, Hoenheim speaks to them – and they feel a certain amount of surprise and satisfaction at the fact that he acknowledged them. "I'm sorry." those two words, repeated again and again as the Xingese merchants led him to his own salvation from the desert's relentless heat, rocked them to their core.

That statement had embedded itself in their memory, the first coherent words to break the never-ending cycle of angry screams, incessant wailing and the shrill of several thousand voices talking all at once without words or any lucid thought behind them – just an overwhelming tumult of emotion they all shared. At least they weren't alone in their misery.

It takes some time for the statement to sink in – "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," again and again and again – until they realize just what Hoenheim is saying.

The initial reaction is akin to joy, or as close to joy as they were going to get in this hell-hole. They swarmed his consciousness with questions and exclamations and demands and it's a wonder that the man remained sane despite their tortured cries. They don't feel remorse though; Hoenheim should suffer, like they are now – the Humuncus should suffer even more, but he's currently out of their reach.

Years pass, and somehow their host – _host_, because they've decided if they're going to spend eternity with this guy it's better if they're at least civil to each other – has managed to talk to almost all of them – they know it's a big number, after all, the fray of their bonded souls seems to stretch on forever – and if he misses a few, they sure to remind him and reprimand him for his carelessness – though, honesty, they can't really hold it against him anymore, the Dwarf in the Flask used Hoenheim just as much as he used them – even though Slave Twenty-Three got the better part of the bargain.

When Hoenheim finds the love of his life – many, many years later, when they had finally accepted this wrenched existence – they can't help but think that the situation is _very _strange and _slightly_ awkward from their point of view. Some are happy for Hoenheim (like the florist , Kaya, and Gidorush, the cook) and some are a bit more jealous of him (like the former slave, Andol, who considered Twenty-Three his rival); some blatantly thought he didn't deserve them – his wife, his sons (those are the ones who could not let go of their bitterness). Some couldn't stand to look at them, for the Elric family reminded them too much of their own families, now their cell-mates (like the renowned master carpenter, Sergens, and his son, Dezure). Most choose to ignore Hoenheim when he's getting all lovey-dovey with his wife.

The souls speak to each other often, and the screaming has long since diminished. They exchange opinions, debate and generally use their last freedom to the fullest – because they still have a voice, and someone hears their anguish and misery and their recital of the stories of their lives.

Someone listens to their tortured screams, futile pleads, moans, words of wisdom, their warnings, their voices when they curse the world that has forgotten them in anger, their laughter as they remember what being _alive _feels like.

Hoenheim listens, he lets them know that they are still real, that they are not forgotten, that they have a purpose still and that the Humunculus will rue the day he was created – he would _pay!_ Pay for all the lives he had stolen and thrown to ruin – because it isn't Hoenheim who should suffer, it isn't _fair_ that _they _should suffer like this – whoever they might have been in life – florist or King, architect or slave, criminal or executioner, an old man or a new-born babe. They were alive once, they had known what it meant to live – even if they are on the edge of forgetting it now, even if Hoenheim was before the Elrics. They were alive... once... and it was time the Dwarf in the Flask got what was coming to him – to scream and plead and wither in anguish as they did.

They are dead now, their bodies had long ago rotted under the hot Xerxes' sun, and they won't let it happen to someone else. They won't, because enough _people _– because, despite everything, they were still _human _– have suffered here, even if Hoenheim has tried to sooth their pain.

Hoenheim speaks to the dead, hears their voices, from bass to soprano and wider, and stops to listen – and that's all he really needs to do.

ooo

Thoughts? I'd love to hear them!


End file.
